Behind the Curtain
by Lobo Loca
Summary: AU Moriary isn't the Consulting Criminal, but his protege. The real Consulting Criminal is none other than newly invalided John Watson who's in need of a flatmate. He just so happens to stumble upon a mad genius detective who has his eye on a nice place in central London. SomewhatDark!John. Slash in future chapters. (The Great Game will not be John's idea.)
1. Prologue

Twenty-four year old John Watson leaned against the back wall of a dimly lit pub, smoking a cigarette that made his medical mind cringe and sipping at the glass of scotch in his other hand. But he wasn't golden boy Watson right now, studying to be a doctor on scholarship at St. Bart's. No, he was a man without a name; someone who knew a little too much and didn't mind getting his hands dirty every now and again. Not that he'd actually needed to get his hands dirty for the past few years, but there was just something about having a piece of cold steel in hand that put John at ease.

More than one prospective client had considered him a psychopath and, sometimes, the blonde thought they were right. But then he'd be on his rounds at Bart's and remember that crime wasn't all he was. He saved more lives on average than he took. Still, something about spending the rest of his life in a safe little hospital cutting people open to save them, and sewing them back up seemed boring.

RAMC would definitely do him some good. There was just something special about gunfire and working under heavy pressure that just the thought made his blood sing with a faint rush of adrenaline.

John flicked his cigarette butt into the bin, downing the last of his scotch as his contact entered the pub. He eyed the tall, well muscled man for a moment, cataloguing everything. Roger Moore was a downtown sort of bloke with a well-worn leather jacket covered with stitched rips (originally from knives no doubt), faded jeans, and heavy boots. His hair was a dull sort of brown that matched his eyes, trimmed short enough for John to see a bit of a scar that started just above his right ear and curved around the back of his skull for three or four inches. Moore, in his own way, was almost as unassuming as John was (which said something, considering John's "night job").

Too bad John had to kill him. Don't get him wrong: Moore was a decent enough bloke, but he was a mouthy one. Couldn't keep a secret to save his life and John couldn't have a man like that in his organization. It wasn't anything personal, but it had to be done, especially with how fast the Watson underground was expanding. His network now had footholds in most of Europe, a handful of contacts in Russia, the Middle East, Africa and Australia; and talks starting in Asia, namely Thailand, Indonesia, and China.

If this kept up, he'd control most of the crime world in six years. Maybe a little longer depending on how the army panned out and how it took him to find a competent but not ambition second.

John set those musings aside as he smiled amiably at the slightly older man, grabbing him in a brief, one arm hug. "Moore, haven't seen you in ages!"

"We saw each other just last month, Fred, don't tell me you're going senile already," the brunet returned and John did his best not to wince at the alias. Definitely hadn't been one of his better identities.

With what he hoped was a good-natured laugh, the blonde unobtrusively steered his contact towards the rear exit of the pub. "Whatever you say, mate. Now, about that job in Sussex I was tellin' you about…"

* * *

A/N

Disclaimer: I have absolutely no beta, and am in no way British, therefore, all mistakes are mine and will be happily corrected if you tell me there is one.

I know it's short, but the chapters will definitely be longer. I'm working on the first chapter now, but I have no idea when I'll be done with it. Reviews and favorites are great muse motivators though. *winkwink*

Also, I have no idea how long this fic will be since it's a WIP, but I will warn you that it will probably be a while before there will be any Johnlock. There may be pining though. I don't know yet.

Love,

Loca


	2. Chapter 1

A/N

So my muse suddenly decided to include Mormor in this fanfic. It's not explicit, just heavily implied, but if that's not your thing, I suggest either ignoring those parts or to stop reading.

I do not appreciate flames, so if someone decides to leave a belligerent comment, it will be deleted.

But if that's not the case, please, continue reading!

P.S. There's been a bit of a time-skip since the prologue, so we're now at the start of ASiP.

* * *

John Watson, above all else, abhorred civilian life. It was so bloody boring compared to the thrill of Afghanistan, of stitching up soldiers who had been blown to bits while trying not to get shot himself. And all he had to show for his service was a scar and a medical discharge. At least the Taliban sniper who'd shot him had been disposed of shortly afterwards so John couldn't say he was _too_ upset about the whole incident.

Which was a complete and total lie.

He still had nightmares of getting shot, all the lives he couldn't save, and boys bleeding out in his arms. They mingled, mixed, and twisted with memories of different times, dark things John tried not to think too hard about.

And that lovely therapist of John's wanted him to write about it. (Yeah, he had a bloody therapist, PTSD, a tremor in his left hand, a psychosomatic limp, a hole in his shoulder, and a bloody _blog _now.) The army doctor had replied wearily, "Nothing happens to me." And it was true, if "anymore" was tacked on the end.

Thanks to his time as an army doctor in Afghanistan followed by months of recovery in a military hospital, John's right hand had taken over managing most of his network: various contacts, clients, contracts, and criminals all over the world. Sebastian Moran was even babysitting John's protégé, an Irish lad by the name Jim Moriarty. Well, maybe "babysitting" wasn't the best word, but Moran had definitely become the psychopath's caretaker. (John didn't believe in mixing his personal and professional lives, didn't particularly like that Moran was, but the ex-army sniper was a big boy and knew what he was getting into. Hopefully.)

Still, John was left with nothing to his name but a crappy little bedsit and an army pension. He could barely afford to live in London anymore without dipping into his private accounts (the ones that may or may not have been on several government watch lists and maybe a few that were in places like Switzerland and the Caymans, but those were strictly for business transactions. Usually).

Just when had the good life gone to all bloody hell?

)

"A bit different from my day," John commented lightly to Mike Stamford as he glanced around the lab at St. Bart's. He didn't miss the fact that there was a tall, curly haired man hunched intently over his microscope but for now paid him no mind. Most likely a teacher or employee, but John didn't like to assume anything. That and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. That had happened to him only twice before: when he first met Charlie Wills outside the pub he frequented in Uni and just before he got shot.

John's life was about to take a drastic turn, and not knowing how or why sent an indiscernible tremor up his spine. This, _this_ is what he'd missed about war: not knowing what happened next.

And maybe he was just a little addicted to the chaos too, because God knew how much London suffered when he got bored. (And by bored he meant bored, not clinically depressed teetering on suicidal. The last time he'd been bored had been a few years back while on leave and, well, the Yard still talked about finding their evidence locker filled with tea and biscuits. The Chief Superintendent hadn't enjoyed his wife's chihuahua in his desk drawer as much as John and Moran had either.)

John was drawn from his thoughts as the man bent over the microscope spoke.

"Mike, can I use your phone? Mine's got no service."

"What's wrong with the landline?" asked the dark-haired doctor.

"I prefer to text."

Mike sighed. "Sorry, it's in my coat."

"You can use mine," John offered, holding out his personal mobile. (His identical work mobile was back at the bedsit with his gun. Moran would track him down if anything that required his immediate attention cropped up. Because, really, what else were those bloody CCTV cameras good for?)

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It took quite a bit to startle John, but that question was a sure fire way to throw the army doctor off balance. And get his guard up. "Afghanistan. I'm sorry, how did you—?"

"How do you feel about the violin?"

_Besides wanting to hit you over the head with one right now for deflecting?_ John ranted internally for a moment, outwardly showing confusion. Because if this man knew about his military service, who knew what else he might now, and John wasn't fond of people knowing his business. A crime lord could only hide so much and be so removed after all, even if he did have a pretty little figurine sitting on his throne.

He settled for asking, "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," the other man drawled as if the answer was obvious.

_Dear God, it's Jim all over again._ Except Jim's voice had the disconcerting habit of becoming high and cheery when he mocked and disparaged. He also liked to address himself as "Daddy" for some bizarre reason. Moran had most likely explained it to John at some point, but the doctor had since forgotten. (Because John really didn't need to know all about Jim's daddy issues unless it was somehow relevant to surviving in London on an army pension or running an international crime syndicate.)

And he was supposed to be reacting, John realized belatedly. The blonde turned to Mike and asked, "You told him about me?" Because that was a much more comforting conclusion than a sociopathic Jim. (Actually, a sociopathic Jim would be a perfect flatmate if he didn't have the ability to tell someone's life story by their shoes, the attention span of a four year old on a sugar high, and the impulse control of kleptomaniac.)

"Not a word," Mike replied with a small smile.

_Damn it_. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

And if John hadn't been convinced before that he'd found Jim's good twin (because Jim was the evil twin, hands down) the man's observations were more than enough to prove it. Normally, John would've jumped at the chance to share a flat with someone that bloody brilliant and still a bit sane, but there'd been one too many close calls with the Organization lately, and he couldn't risk slipping up and allowing someone to have information that could be used against him. And a place in central London? He couldn't afford to live in central London on an army pension, even with a flatmate.

"Is that it?" John asked sharply. Hopefully he could be abrupt enough, suspicious enough, to get this man to rethink his offer.

The man paused at the door, turning back to look at the blonde. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and now we're going to look at a flat?" That really should've been enough to at least make some realize they'd forgotten about what their mother had told them about strangers and social etiquette.

Instead this man asked, "Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

The man barely took a breath before he launched into John's history, hitting the highlights and overlooking the shadows entirely, except for the part about being invalided home. Once done he headed for the door again, stopping to lean back and declare "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street" with a wink at the end.

John gave Mike a pleading look. His friend just smiled cheerfully. "Yep, he's always like that."

All John could think was _Good God_.

)

Returning to the bedsit, John hobbled to the bed and sat down, the day's fascinating encounter at Bart's still running through his head. His eyes caught on his laptop (his new one since the old one had been "accidentally" sacrificed to Jim while John was overseas), and he contemplated it for a moment before standing and hobbling over to it. The ex-army doctor lifted the lid and powered on the laptop. He opened a browser, selected a search engine, pecked out the name of his potential flatmate, and waited. John didn't expect much: maybe a mostly blank Facebook page or some publications in a scientific journal.

He didn't expect a website. (Well, he did. He just didn't expect the Science of Deduction.) And while the bit about observations leading to the detective's outlandishly accurate conclusions piqued his interest, John was also a tad uneasy. Even if Jim hadn't sussed him out yet—they'd only met the once after all and John hadn't really introduced himself—it would be impossible to live with a man (a _detective_) who could tell a pilot by his thumb and a computer program by his tiepin and still be able to keep his identity as a down-on-his-luck ex-army doctor. (Not that John _wasn't_ a down-on-his-luck ex-army doctor—that just wasn't _all_ he was.)

After a moment of consideration, John dug out his work mobile from behind his gun and punched in Moran's number. He half expected the call to go to voicemail, crime never waited after all, but the Colonel picked up after four rings with a distracted, "What's up, Boss?" There was a faint crash, followed by muttered cursing.

"Is everything alright there, Moran?"

"Yessss," the sniper hissed, biting out another curse. "Jim, psychotic little arse he is, brought home a lynx. A fucking _lynx_, like the ones I used for target practice in Afghanistan. I'm not sure if he's trying to domesticate it or if this is the consequence of some second or third psychotic break or something, but—goddamn it!—I'm not allowed to kill it. And at this rate, there won't be anything left un-broken in the flat when Jim gets home. And you know he gets stroppy when the flat's a mess, even if _he_ is the one who made it in the first place. But that's my personal life and can be dealt with later," Moran recited the Organization's most important doctrine with a heavy sigh. "What do you need?"

John was almost rethinking even _considering_ the offer for a flatshare. But if he didn't cut costs or come into some money soon, he'd have to start skipping meals and actually find work (the absolutely dull kind that involved sniffles, coughs, and colds). "I want you to look someone up for me."

"You got a name?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Address 221B Baker Street."

"That's central London, and..." Moran paused for a moment. "I think that's the building next-door. Mrs. Turner is friends with the owner, a Mrs. Martha Hudson. Widow of at least 50, no criminal record, and she makes the most delightful scones; her husband though—deceased—had a rap sheet a mile long."

"Do you think it'll be a problem?" Not that John would do anything to the woman if that was true. She was probably about the age his mum would be if she'd been alive and it wasn't as if he absolutely had to move into Baker Street. If worst came to worst, he'd find a small place away from London, have Moran set up a new account under a false name, and then come back in a few years.

"As long as you don't show up on her doorstep with a machete or an automatic and a murderous glint in your eye, I doubt it. She certainly doesn't mind me. Is this Holmes a potential target or a potential asset?"

"Neither," John replied honestly. "Potential flatmate."

"I didn't know you swung that way, Boss."

Only Moran would be able to get away unscathed with that kind of crack. Anyone else would be bleeding out in a ditch. Slowly. Oh so very slowly. "I'm living on crackers at this point, Moran, and while you and Jim can draw from any number of accounts under a thousand different names here in London, I can't just suddenly inflate my bank accounts. Someone, somewhere, would notice if a little old veteran like me suddenly had nicely lined pockets, and it wouldn't be a friendly sort of attention."

"You could always just win the lottery you know," Moran said causally. "Jim's been telling me the winning numbers for months, but I never use them. I mean, why bother when I already have more money than I know what to do with?"

This was one of the reasons John had fallen out of habit of constantly ringing his second for updates about the Organization: Moran was a sarcastic, whiny little bugger when he wanted to be (which was almost always, now that he was technically freelance) and knew that his boss wouldn't just wake up one day and decide to kill him (yet). That and he couldn't resist making digs about John's choice to live by his (legal) means. "No thank you. Ring me with the important bits about Holmes before seven tomorrow evening, and then email me the full report so I can go over it in my own time."

"Sure, Boss. Wait, while I have you on the line—" There was a shuffling of papers before Moran came back on. "There's a request for aid from some Chinese smuggling ring that's linked to a low mid level Asia contact. Normally, I would've just denied it because our operations are a little hot right now, but Jim—"

"—wants to play The Lady in the Cave." John couldn't exactly say he was surprised.

The sniper sighed. "Yeah."

"Deny it, and if Jim wants to strop, he can and you can tell him that I said if he doesn't like it, he can stick it up his arse. He might be getting groomed to take over, but the Organization isn't his."

"...I think I'll keep most of that to myself, Boss. The sofa isn't nearly as nice as the bed, especially when there's a warm body in it."

"TMI, Moran. TMI," John replied.

Moran sneered back, "Aren't you a bit old for text-speak?"

"Aren't you too old for your pet psychopath?"

"He's not a pet."

The army doctor bit back a snort. "Yes he is. I wouldn't have given him half the opportunity and access he has if you hadn't insisted on making him Protégé."

"You do realize that Interpol, CIA, Mossad, and at least another half dozen intelligence and law inforcement agencies are desperately, desperately trying to listen into and trace this call," Moran rebutted. "MI6 and the Home Office are also getting a little bit too close for comfort. Fields and O'Patrick were found in their apartments last week, about two days apart. Plods ruled them both suicides."

John pulled the phone from his ear, holding it between his hands as he breathed deeply (a technique his therapist insisted did wonders for anger management, when really, it made John think of staring down the sight of a rifle). After counting to ten, he said slowly into the mobile, "And you didn't think that was important enough to warrant my attention before, oh, _now_?"

It took a moment for John to realize that the silence on the other end of the line wasn't Moran being a frightened little squirrel. The bastard had rung off after dropping his little bomb.

One of these days, Moran was seriously going to end up in a ditch somewhere with the words "Annoying dick" carved in his forehead. Or maybe John would just be done with hiding and throw the tosser into the Thames himself. Or maybe have Jim do it. (Psychopaths were notoriously unstable after all, nearly a dime a dozen. He'd always like that lad from Siberia better anyway.)

John sighed and scrubbed at his face, wondering when exactly this had become his life.

)

The cab ride to 221B Baker Street was enough to kick up John's unease from Faintly Anxious to Hyper Vigilant. What little Moran had found on Holmes had been inconclusive, at best. A sealed police record; rumours of a drug habit that had been banished with the help of someone who could put the fear of God into men who thought nothing of beyond profiteering off drugs and murder; and a school manuscript that proved a genius IQ, the interpersonal skills of a rhinoceros, a taste for revenge, and a sense of humour that was twisted as all hell and matched John's just a little too closely for his liking. There was also a text document from a supposedly secure Yard computer that contained a list of bets and dates. The heading was How Long Until Sherlock "The Freak" Holmes Finally Kills Someone.

John didn't think it was a joke, not with an interdepartmental pot that exceeded a thousand pounds. What was most troubling was that the ex-army doctor, an expert in deciphering and predicting human behaviour by a man's walk and three minutes of speech patterns, couldn't tell if this detective was on the side of angels or playing jump rope with the dividing line.

That really, really shouldn't be as appealing as it was. John also had the feeling that this was going to turn out similar to RAMC, and his life had been FUBAR enough in the past few months. The army doctor didn't think Moran would forgive him if the sniper had to avenge his arse again so soon. His second had barely survived working with one of their lieutenants just to get the bastard who'd shot John. It still amazed him that those knuckleheads had managed to get the Taliban sniper only a week after the shooting. (Which was about a week before John had woken up in a field hospital to find Moran and Hale, the lieutenant, sitting beside him, playing cards, and, much to the nurses' vocal dismay, smoking.)

And really, he was practically painting a fluorescent bull's-eye on his back by even meeting with a detective, mad or otherwise.

But that certainly didn't stop John from getting out of the cab, or shaking hands with Holmes (or Sherlock as the detective insisted).

Mrs. Hudson turned out to be a small, sweet old woman who at first glance could be mistaken for a generic sweet-hearted, biscuit-baking grandmother. But John knew that the brief glance she'd given him would've peeled away the masks and layers of a lesser criminal to show the black heart underneath.

Thank God John was the master of a whole other caste of crime. (And he'd have to do some discreet recon to see if Mrs. Hudson was really as unknowing about that pair of boneheads next-door as they thought.)

"There's another bedroom upstairs. If you'll be needing two," the landlady added as John surveyed the sitting room. He was almost distracted enough by the skull to miss the comment, but he'd gotten into the habit of multitasking as a surgeon in the middle of more shootouts than he cared to remember.

"Of course we'll be needing two." Unlike Moran, he wasn't going to just up and turn gay for the first mad genius to fall in his lap. Well, second mad genius.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him and said, "Don't worry. We get all sorts around here." She added in a conspiratorial whisper, "Mrs. Turner next-door's got married ones."

John blinked at her dumbfounded. Just when had those two found the time to actually tie the knot? And when the hell were they planning on telling _him_ that little titbit? (John would deny it later, but his inner rant over Moran being a devious little squirrel who didn't know what the words "don't mix business with pleasure" meant, or the word "priorities" really, had stalled his reaction to that insinuation.)

And so he was left with what sounded like a flimsy bid for normality (something he'd lost years ago behind a dingy pub in a bad part of London), which he gave up at Mrs. Hudson's knowing look. John knew that not all battles were worth fighting and this was one he'd never been good at winning anyway.

It only occurred to the doctor later, after the detective ran out with DI Lestrade and John's outburst about his leg, that Sherlock hadn't said a single word in the face of Mrs. Hudson's accusations. That was either telling or intentionally misleading. And confusticate and bebother that madman for being interesting! (And for being rude. Really, what kind of manners did he have, leaving his possible-but-likely new flatmate alone in the flat with the "I'm not your housekeeper" landlady to go look at a crime scene?)

And then that whirlwind of a man was back, asking John if he's any good. There was only one answer to that: Very Good. He'd lost men in Afghanistan, countless soldiers who hadn't made it home because they couldn't stop the bleeding or the bullet had hit too close to something important, but as far as his men—the thugs and hit men and grifters and all the other nasties who hide in the shadows—were concerned, not one had been lost while under his scalpel.

He'd seen his fair share of trouble too, and more. The army had given him enough for a lifetime. The Organization gave him enough for eight. (Speaking in life sentences at least.)

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked.

John felt lightheaded, almost drunk on the promise of an adrenaline high after running on empty for so long. "Oh God yes."

* * *

A/N

I know, I already have on at the top but that's more a warning than an actual note.

Again, this is unbeta'd and not Brit-picked so if you notice an error (spelling, grammatical, plot hole, too much OOCness, etc) please let me know so I can fix it.

Also, I have no idea when I'll be done with the second chapter, especially with AP testing and finals coming up.

But thanks for sticking with it thus far, guys!

Loca


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